


To Be Born without a Mask

by MissMagpie



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bank Robbery, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Crisis of Faith, Drama & Romance, F/M, Family Feels, Love, Not Beta Read, Other, Pre-Canon, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2020-06-26 05:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19761940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMagpie/pseuds/MissMagpie
Summary: Before Blackwater. Before Beaver Hollow. Before everything, Bess McElveen knew she had met the man she was gonna marry. There was only one small, little problem. And he goes by the name of Dutch van der Linde.





	1. Epigraphs

_"Give me your heart and I'll show you how to feel,_

_Send me your soul and you'll know what it is to be free..._

_We all need a deeper purpose, one that's true and bold;_

_The only thing that could hurt us is the curse of the fold._

_I once knew a man who had fire in his eyes,_

_Bloody right hand, he had taken his enemies lives._

_The past was his torture, the future held his hope._

_Until he chose his fortune has the curse of the fold._

_Although you may feel like giving up, it's not the only road,_

_The path less often traveled holds the highest, the highest of hopes._

_Some used to say that I'd never scale this mountain,_

_Now that I'm close they shut their eyes and draw their curtains,_

_Those who don't believe will always encourage defeat._

_They'll scream and shout and scold for the curse of the fold._

_Although I felt like giving up, it's not the road I chose;_

_The path less often traveled held the highest, the highest of hopes._

_Held the highest, the highest of hope."_

_\-- Shawn James, ‘Curse of the Fold’_

***

_“Thus,_

_Life flows into Death above Time’s translucent contours,_

_These mountains are fingers of a sleeping hand. No_

_Jewels adorn its tawny tapering fingers. But in the silence_

_It moves forward through the delicate haze_

_Blue flowing into green, while no one watches.”_

_\-- Yvor Winters_


	2. Long Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pistol, no larger than her hand, rested on top. Clean, with a short barrel, she had purchased it special order over a year ago, right after her father had died. Joseph -he’d always been sweet on her- at the general store had tried to talk her out of it. What could a sweet young thing like her have a need of something like that? She lived close to town. Her uncle was around. ‘Only for emergencies’ she had said, only partially lying. Was it an emergency now?

“C’mon, boy!” 

Bess McElveen flicked the end of her whip and the horse in front of her kicked up into a canter. He was a young black & roan Ardennes, young and stubborn, but nevertheless her pride and joy. She clicked her teeth together. The sturdy beast let out an unhappy snort, but lunged forward into a gallop, whipping around her in a circle. Even in the crisp mountain air of West Elizabeth, a shine of sweat soon coated the both of them as the sun hung bright in the midday sky. Bess smiled, losing herself for just a moment. Her mind ebbed and flowed with the sound of hoofbeats, the kicking up of dust, the heavy breath on her skin. When it came to horses, it was always pure poetry. 

Bess looked up to see a man -a boy, really- leaning on the rails of the fence that outlined the front of the corral. He was young, no more than twenty, and clean-shaven with a thick jawline he was trying to hide under the brim of a black hat. Even dressed as plainly as he was, Bess knew he wasn’t one of the local farmhands. He was big, yes, but he knew his size, possessing a bravado that betrayed his age. Bess scoffed. He _was_ a man after all. An indignant neigh grabbed her attention as Reunion’s pace faltered, his chest heaving.

“Okay, boy. That’s enough for today.” Bess gave him a firm pat on the neck and walked over to the stranger, calling out. “Can I help you?” 

The boy grunted and shook his head, tipping his hat towards her. “Just admiring the view.”

Bess looked down at herself. Her clothes, a dark green riding habit, were covered in dust. Sweat stained her brow. Her hair was a mess. She nervously tucked a lock of hair behind her ears. 

“The horses, ma’m.” 

Her smile faltered, but quickly returned. Bess hitched a leg over the fence, landing at his side. “They’re beauties, that’s for sure. Eyeing anyone in particular? My father -well, my uncle now- he owns the stables if you’re looking to buy.”

The stranger scratched his chin and cast an eye over the corral. Shires, Appaloosas, even a Thoroughbred or two: she had them all. He pointed to a pink & amber mare, chewing the grass at the base of a fencepost. 

“Ah, Sweetrose.” Bess let out an impressed whistle. “You’ve got a good eye. She’s a fast one. Finicky though, will buck you faster than the blink of an eye if she’s spooked, but she’s loyal.”

She felt a nuzzle at her back pocket. Thick, hairy lips nibbled her arm and she erupted into laughter as her horse knocked her gently forward with his head. “And, this here’s Prince Reunion. He’s not for sale though.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so.” He stroked the creature’s nose, soft and slow, with a gentle smile on his face. “It seems he’s attached at the hip.”

His words caught her off guard. With a hand to her brow to block the sun, she reexamined the boy, surprised. What had her father said? You never get a second chance to make a first impression, but judge a man too quickly and the mistake could last a lifetime. He was a brute, sure, and his words came in more of a grumble than any form of elocution, but she liked him. She extended her hand, smiling. He took it.

“Bess McElveen.”

“Arthur Callahan.”

“Arthur!” A voice called from the main road. 

Bess turned to see two men approaching on foot. They walked as brothers, with grins on their faces and a hand on each other’s shoulders. The first approached with open arms and an easy smile. His long, black hair was slicked back underneath a velvet hat. His red, silk vest & striped trousers were elegant, but Bess soured as she noticed the poorly patched seams. She knew a con man when she saw one.

“How are you today, miss?” The gentleman offered an outstretched hand.

“Very well. Thank you.” Bess shook his hand, only for him to place a kiss on the back of her palm. She raised an eyebrow. “I believe Arthur here was just about to make a purchase. But, I suppose you’re here to put an end to the whole thing.”

“Miss McElveen runs the stables.” Arthur said.

“My uncle does, yes.” She acknowledged.

“Well, then! What fortune your presence has bestowed on us.” The man in red spoke, clapping his hands together and smiling. “We were so unfortunately relieved of our horses about a week ago and we find ourselves in need of some fine replacements.”

“I’m sure my uncle would love to help you,” Bess clipped a lead on Prince Reunion and began to steer him towards the stables. “But, I’m afraid he doesn’t conduct business with strangers.” 

“Oh, where in the world are our manners.” The man in red threw his hands in the air. He offered his hand. “Reagan O’Malley. You met my nephew Arthur. This is my brother-in-law Hosea.”

On his approach, she hadn’t paid much mind to the man’s companion, older as he was and overshadowed by his friend’s overt charm. But, with a second look, she was gone. A pair of striking blue eyes and that blonde head of hair and Bess’ entire world tilted on its side. Her breath left her. No. It was time for business. So, she pushed all those smitten thoughts aside. Besides, she was much too sensible for all that. Bess’ eyes drifted slowly to the revolver on Mr. O’Malley’s belt. A shiny thing. Well used. Loved, even. And, at three against one, she was outmatched.

“Well,” Bess smiled stiffly. “Now we ain’t strangers no more.“

***

Bess ran a brush over her horse’s back, dust and sweat mixing with the air. She blew a wisp of hair out of her face, exhaustion catching up with the day’s labor. Even in the cool shade of the barn, hard work was hard work. And an uneasy mind hadn’t made it any easier. Bess wiped her forehead of sweat, sending a smudge of dirt across her face. Prince Reunion ripped some hay off a bale stowed in the corner, chewing slowly. 

She brought his face up to hers and kissed him on the nose. “Rest easy, my dear.” 

With a grunt, she heaved his saddle off the ground and, pushing the stall door open with her rear, carried it across the way into a tack room. Bits and bobbles hung from wall to wall and the distinct smell of hay hit her nose like a sweet memory. 

“Beautiful creatures.” Mr. O’Malley shouted from outside the room. He stood with his back towards her, lighting a thick cigar as he eyed a bay-colored mare. All while that damn revolver hung at his hip. 

“Yes. They are.” Her voice wavered as she called back to the man in red.

With one eye on the door, she opened a drawer out from the small desk that stood in the corner of the tack room. The wood creaked and she stopped, wincing at the sound. What was she even doing? This foolishness? She waited, for shouting, for gunshots, for anything to inflame her gut and tell her she was right. And, yet nothing happened. She braced the drawer with her hand and, at last, slowly slid it out of the desk. 

Her heart stilled at the sight of the desk’s contents and she took a deep breath, long and shaking. A black, leather bound book laid at the bottom, wrapped in a silk ribbon. But, that was not the reason for her own nerves. A pistol, no larger than her hand, rested on top. Clean, with a short barrel, she had purchased it special order over a year ago, right after her father had died. Joseph -he’d always been sweet on her- at the general store had tried to talk her out of it. What could a sweet young thing like her have a need of something like that? She lived close to town. Her uncle was around. ‘Only for emergencies’ she had said, only partially lying. Was it an emergency now? Bess hid it away in the pocket of her habit, secreted away in the folds of her skirt, and she was outmatched no longer. 

“Is there a problem, miss?” The cool, scratchy voice startled her as she turned to see Hosea standing behind her. 

She immediately tried to forget about the gun, as if he could read the very thoughts on her mind. And, yet every word fled from her mind. The traitors. “Uh, well.”

She blushed, flustered. Bess was many things, but a liar wasn’t one of them. And, then she smiled at the sight of his shoes: a pair of well-loved and worn riding boots. And suddenly, Bess didn’t feel afraid. Not with him, as he looked at her with gentle concern. Instead she was struck by understanding. He didn’t share his friend’s taste for grandiosity, she realized. Quite the opposite in fact, as he stood there, trying to blend in with the woodwork. His eyes were a safe-haven, even amongst his worn face and rough brow. Her heart slowed as an odd breeziness drifted over her, binding the two of them together. Bess blinked, shooing away the butterflies.

She shook the black ledger in her hand. “Just trying to find this.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Bess nodded at her own answer and ducked past him to the exit. 

“Come on. You passed the house on the way here. I’ll fix up a pot of coffee.” Bess marched forward out of the barn, determined to put an end to this whole encounter. The man in red turned and fell in beside her. Hosea followed. “And, Mr. O’Malley?”

“Yes?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t smoke in my barn.” 


	3. Followed by a Swift & Precarious Exit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Something wrong?” Bess set four mismatched cups on the table, eyeing the men around her.  
> “No, not at all.” The man in red rose and slapped Arthur on his shoulder, pulling him from his seat and slowly shifting him to the door. That sly smile crept its way back to his face. It bared far too much teeth for Bess’ liking. “The boy’s gotta be a use for something, ya see.”

The percolator whined, hot and steaming, while Mr. O’Malley sat at the head of Bess’ small kitchen table. The room was cramped with the four of them -it was small with even just Bess and her uncle on the best of days- and the clutter of pots, bread, and staples which littered every inch of free space certainly didn’t help. 

“So it was robbers, you say?” 

“Hm? Something along those lines, yes.”

“Up by Sweetwater creek?” Bess inquired, spooning coffee grounds into the boiling water. “You best be careful up around those parts. There’s been a string of robberies up that aways, taking the gold panners up for all they’re worth. People lost 6 months of good, honest work, everything they had. My uncle included.”

Hosea shared a look with Mr. O’Malley, while Arthur fidgeted in his seat. “That seems quite unfortunate.”

“Yessir, it is. He should be back shortly and then you boys can get the business sorted-”

“Arthur, I just remembered!” Mr. O’Malley patted his pockets. “It seems I lost possession of my pipe, back at the hotel. Would you please go and fetch it, my boy? It is so cherished of mine.” 

“Huh?”

“My pipe, Arthur.”

“Something wrong?” Bess set four mismatched cups on the table, eyeing the men around her. 

“No, not at all.” The man in red rose and slapped Arthur on his shoulder, pulling him from his seat and slowly shifting him to the door. That sly smile crept its way back to his face. It bared far too much teeth for Bess’ liking. “The boy’s gotta be a use for something, ya see.”

Arthur opened the door only to come face to face with Grover McElveen. He was a large man -a brute to some- and to see him next to a boy half his age and not immediately dwarf him made Bess nervous. Her uncle was terse man -bordering on ungracious- and Ms. Peterson down the road was always trying to bring him to church on Sundays. 

“Who the hell are you?” He said, stepping into the house. Arthur turned, ducking his hat as he busied himself with the fresh coffee that was now on the table.

“Uncle Grover!” Bess smiled, feeling the tension in the room rise, and gave him a stiff kiss on his cheek. She slid his coat off his shoulders, guiding him to a seat. The whiff of alcohol hit her like a freight train. 

“They’re here to talk about the horses.” She shoved her coffee cup in his hands, deftly grabbing the liquor bottle he held in his fingers. “That’s Hosea. Regan O’Malley and their nephew Arthur.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. McElveen. You have a lovely home.” Hosea stretched out his hand, but it went ignored, hanging in the air. 

“Do I?” Grover scoffed.

Bess cracked open a cabinet and slipped the indecent bottle inside, trying to block the motion from her guests’ view. She heard the clinking of glass as the bottle brushed against the others. She winced at the sound, but closed the door without a creak. She did wish he would go to church on Sundays.

“I think I may have a few Thoroughbreds that might be suitable for your needs, Mr. O’Malley.” She said, determined to be cheery. “And, of course, Sweetrose for Arthur.”

The sound of silence was palpable. That stupid gun. The stupid gun and her uncle’s liquor. She could feel everything slipping through her fingers, like water. Yet, she refused. It would all come together. It had to.

“Where ya’ll from?” Grover grumbled, ignoring Bess and sipping his coffee. 

“Down south of Annesburg aways.” Hosea said. “We’re heading west to bring the boy to my sister’s place.”

“Annesburg, huh?” Grover popped a cigarette in between his teeth, lighting it with a match. “Well, you know only two things come out of Annesburg: coal and whores. And, the coal’s prettier.”

Grover snickered, baring his tobacco stained teeth. A pause. Hosea and O'Malley smiled graciously at the churlish remark, soft chuckles at first. But, as Grover’s laugh turned broad, so did their own and, soon, the three were laughing in unison. 

“You ever been gold panning, boy?” Grover dropped his smile. He flicked his fingers and ash of his cigarette burned bright, scattering on the Arthur’s clothes. 

A pause. Arther examined the man’s expression, unable to hide his displeasure. He shifted in his seat and looked to O’Malley, who shook his head. 

“No, sir. I have not.”

“That so? ‘Cause you bear a striking resemblance to a kid I met down by the creek. Only he made the mistake of robbing me senseless.”

Grover took one last drag from his cigarette, slow and steady, and said nothing. Smoke blew from his lips -aimed in the boy’s direction- and he crumpled the butt on the wood of the kitchen table. He pushed back from his seat and rose, bending over to look Arthur in the eye under the brim of his hat.

“Gentlemen, I’m sure this has been just a simple misunderstanding-” Hosea’s words went unnoticed. 

“I think you’re trying to make a fool of me.” Her uncle spat. 

“You calling me a liar, now, that it?” Arthur retorted. The man in red reached for his hip.

“Boys!” Bess yelled, failing to hide the growing panic in her voice. 

“You come in my house? Eat the food off my table and insult me? Someone should teach you some manners.”

“Uncle, stop it.” She said, firmly. “Either sell them the horses or let them leave.”

“Listen, you old drunk. I didn’t rob you.” Arthur rose, puffing his chest. “Now, are you gonna sell us some horses or are you gonna get outta the damn way?”

The two men stood there, chest to chest, for a moment. Bess held her breath, the stench of tobacco and booze still in her nostrils. And slowly, Grover held out his hand. And, she could breathe again.

O’Malley slapped a fistful of bills into his outstretched palm and and pushed Arthur towards the door. Bess wiped the front of her dress and said, “Right. I’ll roundup the horses and-“

Bess heard bone against bone and she gasped as Grover threw an uppercut across Arthur’s jaw, sending him sideways. Before the boy could react, Grover came back around and kneed him in the belly. Arthur doubled over the table, his breath gone. Tea cups scattered and shattered across the floor. Grover pressed the boy’s face into the wood with a meaty hand, drenching his face in spilled coffee and crushed ceramic. Before O’Malley and Hosea could act, Grover had one arm around his neck. 

Arthur was choking, spit flying from his lips as he struggled for air. His arms flailed. Arthur gurgled and coughed, only trying to breathe, and the sight of it haunted her. There she saw a boy, dressed in the costume of a man, and it broke her heart. One face after another flashed before her, every one with boyish green eyes. Tears streamed down her face. No. Not again.

“Stop it, Grover!” Bess ran forward. She hit his back, his shoulders, anything to rid his grasp on the boy.

“Get off me woman!” Grover shoved her backward and she fell backwards on the stove. She yelped as her open palm hit the hot burner. Her flesh seared. But, it was enough. Arthur bit into the man’s arm, sinking his teeth an inch into her uncle’s flesh. Grover screamed and smashed his head against Arthers, roaring as blood trickled down his arm. Grover grabbed him by the collar and drew an arm backward, slamming his fist into the boy’s face. And, then again, square in the jaw. And, again. And, again. Blood rushed from his lip. Then his nose. And, soon it was everywhere. Arthur’s body went limp across the table.

Grover was gonna kill him.

“He’s just a boy!” Bess screamed. She ran forward, scratching at his face. Her nails dug in, clawing flesh. He pushed her back, but she held on. 

The shot rang in her ears. A flash of cold slivered up her spine and all she saw was red. Blood scattered across her face, Arthur’s face, and from the back of Grover’s head. It split open like fresh honeycomb, slow and oozing. Bess screamed. Chunks of gray matter splattered the walls. She stood, shaking, trying to shield her eyes from the gore, but couldn’t find anywhere else to look. Bess brought her hands up to her face, only to scream once more at the gun in her hand. It clattered to the floor with a heavy thunk and she stumbled backwards before falling into a chair. 

“Sweet Jesus.” Hosea exclaimed as silence overshadowed the room.

“What the hell was that?” Arthur yelled, furious. “Did ya enjoy the picture show, Dutch? That must’ve been what you were doing while the man was beating me half to death!”

“The name’s O’Malley.” The man in red said sternly.

“I think we can drop the pretense.” Hosea said. He gingerly walked around the kitchen table -now in ruins- and opened one of the cabinets, pulling the bottle of whiskey Bess had stashed away earlier. He knelt at her feet, wrapping her fingers gently around the neck of the bottle. Hosea patted her shoulder. “This’ll help, dear.”

Bess looked at him like he had grown a second head. She felt the crust of blood drying on her skin, her lips, her mouth. She couldn’t bare to look at the walls. Her eyes were open and she was terrified. And, now, her world was alien. 

“Just a sip.” 

She brought the bottle up to her lips. Still trembling, Bess closed her eyes and threw her head back. It burned, but she didn’t gag. She simply tried to ignore the taste of rust. 

Hosea turned back to the man in red. “We need a plan, Dutch.”

“Yeah, yeah. I need a moment.” Dutch had busied himself with the body, turning what remained of Grover’s head from side to side. “It’s not exactly a subtle wound.”

“It’s gonna get noticed.” Arthur said, spitting out a tooth. “It’s gonna get us noticed.” 

Still squatting, Dutch handed him his handkerchief and the boy promptly wiped the blood off his face. Bess looked on wide-eyed as he gripped both sides of his nose and -with one hasty jerk- set in back in place. The crack set her teeth on edge.

“Who the hell are you people?” She asked.

Dutch turned on her and recoiled, wondering if she had made a mistake leaving the gun on the floor. The man stood up and it was only then that she realized the full weight of hisdemeanor. He had hidden himself in plain view, tucking those broad shoulders away behind a cheeky smile and trickster eyes. Hosea and Arthur not only looked at him as a leader, but as a father. And, fathers had nothing to lose, if it meant protecting their family. 

Dutch pulled a chair up from the floor and set it backwards in front of her, taking a seat a few inches away from her. Bess didn’t know if it was the booze or her own foolish arrogance that made her look him in the eye, but she knew she wasn’t one to be intimidated. Not now. Not today. Fathers may have nothing to lose, but -at this moment- neither did she.

“We are careful people, Miss McElveen.” Dutch said. “Now, listen to me carefully, my dear. You don’t have a lot of options, because we ourselves do not have a lot of options. We are men with grandiose desires, desires that may or may not coalesce with murdering a man over some stolen horses.”

“But, it wasn’t about the horses-” She interrupted.

“Oh? Wasn’t it? If we stay here -if you stay here- we will take the blame, whether you will it so or not. The law is not interested in truth, my dear. Only fictitious justice served by a quick drop and a short stop.”

“We’ve taken the blame for a lot worse, Dutch.” Hosea said, speaking up. 

“No, Hosea.” Dutch stood. His voice reverberated with a resounding timbre, transforming her tiny squalid kitchen into a pulpit. “I am done living behind these lies. They muddle everything, an acrid redolence of integrity; Petty crimes for petty souls. It is time for a goddamn change. It is time for these lawmen to know who we are.”

Dutch extended his hand towards her, bowing as a gentleman before her. It was as if she’d been struck by lightning, as his words touched a desire deep within her very core. A desire which had haunted her entire life, to which she’d never been able to name. But, he knew. He knew Bess McElveen, whether she wanted him to or not. Never in her life had a man spoken to her like that, never looked her in the eyes as an equal. He had flattered her.

Bess took his hand and rose, changed. Very well then. So be it. The kitchen door slammed in its wooden frame as she went to work, already tallying the provisions they would need. Bits. Saddles, stirrups. Blankets and picks. 

She never looked back, not until the midday sun had long melted into a honey orange sunset, setting the ranch ablaze in a wash of purple and red. They stood -all at last on horseback- and watched the delicate haze of of dusk rolling off the horizon. Prince Reunion shifted his weight underneath her; her hips rolled as she turned him in a circle, looking back at the place she had lived her entire life. Was it sorrow or victory she felt, churning in her stomach as she waited there on the edge of the property? 

“Did you really rob him?” Bess asked Arthur, as if that would change her mind. 

The boy paused; his face hidden behind the mask of a bandana. And he nodded. 

And with that, her new world order became concrete. Every doubt settling into place like chess pieces on a checkerboard. Her mother. Her father. Her uncle. Her brothers. They had all lived and died in that house and here she was. Bess clicked her teeth and spurred her horse into a gallop, leaving a trail of dust behind. She was alive. 


	4. Riverside Rites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Determined. Relentless and level-headed. A woman unafraid of hard work, that’s who Bess was. She knew her own mind. But, now? He had awakened chaos within her; he’d flipped her life on a dime with a single gunshot and a bottle of whiskey.

The man in the moon watched her from the heavens, casting his face on the water of the stream. Bess dipped a toe in the cold water, already shivering as she unlaced her dress, now in ruins. How long had they rode? In their escape -call it as it was- she’d lost track of the time. What was hours felt like days; She’d pushed her horse to the brink, riding as she’d never rode before away from the corrals and onto the open road. But, it was quiet now. She could hear Arthur prepping the night’s fire, on the silent end of Dutch’s preachings. 

The crackle of kindling and the pop of flame, it was new to her. Strange as it was, it brought light and warmth to the midnight air. But, it did not comfort her. She was cold, secluding herself by the stream. Bess muttered a few choice words as she dipped her toes in the water. At its deepest, it would come up to her waist. She braced herself, holding her breath, and plunged forward. 

Blood. Even in the dark, she could see the red of the water as it trickled off her skin. She could still hear the shot. She could still see the oozing of his head, like honeycomb… Bess expected the sight would haunt her for the rest of her days, a scar she’d remember as she drew her final breath. How little did she know of this new and strange world she had fled into? O’Malley had become Van der Linde. Arthur and Hosea had stayed the same, but they were strangers. She had nothing, no one. She didn’t even have a spare change of clothes.

She put her hand to her mouth, trying to compose herself for a moment. She wouldn’t let Dutch or Arthur hear. But, empty sobs racked her body and no matter of resolve could stop the tears that came. Oh, God, what had she _done_? What had she  _ done _ ? Bess crumpled into the water, biting her own fist as she crouched barefoot in the creek bed. The water lapped against her skin, up to her neck, and sent gooseflesh down her spine. 

_ Snap.  _

Bess jumped at the sound. She spun in the water, the splash breaking the silence of the evening as she scanned the shore. Dutch and Arthur had gone silent; the night’s fire burned in embers. She didn’t even have a knife. Her heart was racing, but all she saw was darkness. Wolves. Cougars. Outlaws. Her mind conjured up boogeymen and worse, but in this darkness she couldn’t see a thing.

Hosea stood there on the rocks. She stood up, startled and exposed, as water dripped off her naked form. She wiped the tears from her eyes. He stared, knowing he had crossed some boundary, some line in the sand. He stood there, unsure if he should apologize or, god-willing, dive deeper into the other side. Those blue eyes. Every time he looked at her Bess felt empowered. Bold. She couldn’t hide from it even if she tried. And, with the moonlight shining on her pale skin, she wouldn’t hide now.

Hosea blushed, slowly and stiffly averting his gaze. 

“I brought you some clothes.” Hosea said, refusing to look back. He set a bundle down on a rock, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Even in the dark, Bess could see the red in his cheeks. He trailed off, at a loss for words. “They’re Arthur’s, but-”

“Thank you, Mr. Matthews.” Bess slowly slipped back into the stream, clothing herself with its water.

“Of course.” His gaze returned, salvaging the last of his gentleman’s demeanor. He dipped his hat before returning back to the shelter of the trees and the safety of camp. She wanted to say something. Anything.

In less than a day, her entire world had changed. Was she the same person who awoke this morning on her father’s ranch? Determined. Relentless and level-headed. A woman unafraid of hard work, that’s who Bess was. She knew her own mind. But, now? He had awakened chaos within her; he’d flipped her life on a dime with a single gunshot and a bottle of whiskey. This was the calm in the storm and she was in the middle of it. There, right there in the water, adrenaline pumping through her veins... She loved it. She had craved it her entire life and now she had it. How do you say thank you for something like that?

Once she was alone -with only the moon and the frogs for company- she blushed and buried her face in the water. Like a child, she smiled from ear to ear, uncontrollable, an infectious joy that consumed her entire body as she pulled herself from the stream. She spun around, her bare feet dancing on the wet rocks as she pulled on the clothes Hosea had left her. They were big, of course, but once she rolled the sleeves up past her elbows and tucked in the red flannel shirt, all was well. She was alive. She was reborn. She was free. 

Bess slipped through the darkness back to camp, water still dripping down her neck. Without a word, tranquility had settled over the nighttime air. Two tents had been pitched. Crickets hummed in the grass and an owl called forlorn from its perch. Arthur had settled down by the fire, his gun at his side. The ashes burned low and smoldering, like amber starlight. 

She tiptoed gingerly over fallen logs and bundles of goods, trying not to wake Arthur, as she slipped back to the horses. Sweetrose flicked her tail, acknowledging her presence, but the creatures did not stir as she began unlacing a blanket from one of the steeds. If she were sleeping out amongst the stars, the cold would take some getting used to. Draping the wool blanket over her shoulder, she turned, only to run face into Hosea once more. 

“Miss.”

He startled her; Bess hadn’t even heard the gentleman approach and she blushed at her own jittery nature. “Mr. Matthews.”

“I thought I’d return this. ”

It was the glint that first caught her eye. The shine of the moonlight on metal. It was a gun. It had been cleaned and oiled, cared for like a precious thing to be loved. Her gun. Bess wasn’t sure if she could love such a thing. She took it gingerly, trying to forget the taste of rust she had so desperately tried to scrub away. 

“I set up my tent for you. It should be warm enough for now.”

“Really?” The gesture shocked her. Even among outlaws, Bess never expected any special favors. “I don’t need-”

“Please, I insist. Besides, sleeping underneath the stars. Underneath all of that splendor?” Hosea smiled, looking up at the night sky. A splash of stars swirled across the black sky; even his blue eyes couldn’t compare to the entire universe contained in a single silver-speckled landscape. “How could I say no to all that?”

His appreciation was infectious and Bess smiled. He was close. Too close. Closer than any man would dare get to stranger, if he had any sense. But, were they strangers? Together, the two of them orbited around one another like celestial bodies amongst the heavens, connected by a force neither of them could understand. Bess almost reached out to touch him, but stopped, not yet ready for the unspoken to become real.

Hosea, at last, tipping his hat one final time. “Goodnight, Ms. McElveen.”

A sense of urgency overcame her as he turned his back to her. The moment between them, fleeting perfection, threatened to disappear unnoticed.

“Mr. Matthews!” She called.

“Hm?” He stopped, and something pulled Bess away from her world of rationality.

She grabbed his lapel and pulled him into a deep embrace. She kissed him, full and open, pressing her lips against his. There, underneath the stars, with her hands on his chest it, it was dizzying & free. The radiance of the sky melded with their bodies and set the entire world in motion. Cassiopeia watched from her celestial throne; Orion threw his spear. The crab, the lion, and the bull all danced, yet Hosea and Bess ignored it all. 

Hosea gripped her shoulders gently and pulled away. His jaw dropped; he looked at her as if he was reevaluating his entire life order, but he said nothing. She said nothing, wiping the saliva from her lip. The passion died away into comfort. She laughed, softly, filling the silence and he smiled. Nothing more needed to be said.

“Goodnight, Hosea.” 

“Goodnight, Bessie.” 


	5. The Broadside of a Barn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the future. There they were, Dutch’s words which floated across her mind. That gun was everything she wanted out of the world as well as everything the world had refused her.

_ Pt-kow!  _ The crack of the gunshot echoed through the tall grass. Wood splintered through the air… 50 yards behind the bottle Bess had made her target. They rested there, glass beacons, on an old fallen log. Untouched. 

The wind blew lazily through the fields as a murder of crows cawed from their branches, spooked by the shot. The three of them stood there, watching, Hosea to her right and Dutch to her left. Bess felt the weight of their expectations, their disappointment. She had murdered a man, blew his brains out at her own kitchen table, and yet she couldn’t hit a damn bottle.

“It’s hopeless.” Bess groaned. “I’m hopeless.”

“She’s aiming past the target.” Arthur muttered. He leaned up against an old, half-dead oak tree, chewing on a blade of grass in between his teeth. 

Hosea gave her a handful of bullets. “Come on, chin up. Reload.” 

Bess pushed the bottom lever of the pistol forward and drew the hammer backwards. The bolt slid backward. Her brow furrowed, concentrating through the steps, as she slipped two bullets inside. She pushed the lever forward once more, and with a clink, the bullets slid forward into the barrel. 

“Faster.” 

Bess took a breath and gritted her test, her nimble fingers struggling with the mechanism of it all. Lever forward. Hammer back. Bullets in. Lever, once more. Hosea stood to her right, evaluating her progress from over her shoulder.

“Again.” Lever forward. Hammer back. Bullets in. Lever once more.

“Again.” Lever. Hammer. Bullets.  _ Clink _ . Eight bullets; Eight shots. Hosea grunted his approval and turned the lead over to Dutch. He came up from behind and leaned in against her, close, too close, and looked down her sights. The bottles rested on a rotten fence post, proud and still intact, some distance away.

“May I?” He placed a hand on her hip. Bess nodded. 

“You know what this gun is, Miss McElveen?” Dutch wrapped his arms around her, shifting her torso sideways and pushing her shoulders down. He smelled like sweetgrass and tobacco. The vivid memory of her brother hit her instantaneously, slow dancing with her after church on Sundays, with her head resting on his chest. But, Dutch was not her brother, even as he whispered in her ear. “This gun is the future. Our future. Now, I know yesterday brought around a startling reevaluation of virtue, but, nevertheless, we must carry on. We must persist or perish. It is a choice all of us must make, Miss. McElveen, and, now, it is your turn.”

Bess raised the gun, staring down the barrel. She took a long, drawn out breath and steadied her hand as sh aimed, picturing the bottle in dozen little pieces. How had Dutch known? Had she been that transparent, last night after the river? The man in the moon had looked down on her, glistening in the cold stream, while the world she had known fell apart around her. 

“After all, isn’t it the moment of our sincerest doubt which gives way to new certainties?” He said. Bess cocked the pistol and squeezed.

_ Pt-kow! _ The gun jerked backwards as shot rang out across the clearing. The scent of gunpowder was sharp and the gun felt warm in Bess’ hands. The moment settled and all five bottles taunted her from their places. Bess groaned, the flare of anger rising in her chest, and she pulled trigger again. Another shot rang out, loud, and still the bottles remained unshattered. She fired again and missed. She squeezed the trigger again and again, baring her teeth as she unloaded shot after shot and hit nothing. Until,  _ click _ . 

The gun seized. Bess pulled back the hammer, puzzled, but it didn’t budge. She pulled the trigger and was met with silence. Bess wished she could scream, jostling with the bolt of the gun. Cursing, she tried to yank the hammer back; she tried to force it, bend the damn thing to her will. But, it just wouldn’t budge-

The gun fired, wildly. The stray shot flew backwards, piercing the wood of the oak tree and sending Arthur’s hat into the sky. Arthur dropped flat on his stomach, eating a mouthful of dirt in the process. Bess’ eyes went wide as Hosea gingerly plucked the gun from her fingers.

“The damn woman almost shot me, Dutch!” Arthur said, wiping the dirt from his jeans.

“Oh, settle down, boy.” Dutch said. “You act as you’ve never been shot at before.”

Arthur huffed, dismissing them all with a wave of the hand, stormed off back to camp. 

“With the size of his head, it’s a wonder how they missed.”  Hosea smirked. His joke died mid-air before he turned back to her, serious. “We’ve all gotta learn somehow. A gun is a dangerous thing. A woman of your wit, I pray we don’t have to repeat that.”

Dutch took the gun from Hosea, his expression serious. His hands worked effortlessly, breaking the pieces apart and putting them back together again, all the while never breaking her gaze. His moods shifted with the wind, holding so much pride and belief in one moment only to be replaced with… something else. Something she couldn’t name. He took out his red bandana from his pocket and, soon, the pistol was glistening. He paused, long and arduous, but Bess understood the message. The time to learn was now. 

“My expectations are high, Ms. McElveen.” He muttered, his tone flat. “And, they do not include shooting poor Arthur in the back.”

“No, they do not.” Arthur said, bounding towards them from camp with his hat once more on top of his head. It’s rightful place, Bessie thought, even as she noticed the small hole which now graced its rim. 

Arthur held out a large rifle. The beauty of it struck her, with the dark stained wood and ebony metal. Her mouth dropped open when he handed the rifle to her. She admired it, running her fingers gently across the sides. A bear was engraved on the butt, standing beside a river bed. The markings were light and graceful. Who had put this much love and talent into a killing thing, only to part with it after? Where had he ended up? She realized it was a foolish question, one that didn’t have a pretty answer, but she took the gun anyways, cautiously wrapping her fingers around the barrel.

“Now, what you have there is a Volcanic Pistol. It’s enough to blow a man's brains out, sure, but it’s pretty much useless in a real fight. ” Arthur said. “This...has a bit of weight to it. You’re gonna want to lean on to it.”

Arthur pressed the butt of the gun into her shoulder and brought her hand up to the trigger. “It’s got some kick to it, but aim true and it’ll get the job done.”

Bess brought the gun up to her eye and looked through the sights. It felt solid in her hands. Suddenly, she understood its appeal. It wasn’t a savage thing, not anymore. It was protection and freedom and… It was the future. There they were, Dutch’s words floating across her mind. That gun was everything: everything she wanted out of the world and everything the world had refused her.

“We are a family, Miss McElveen. We are bound together by something bigger than ourselves. Together. We shoot fellers as need shooting… Save fellers as needs saving… and feed those that need feeding.” Dutch said, wrapping his hands around her to correct her aim. “And, we are gonna find out what you need.”

Bess lined up her target. She took a deep breath in and then let it go. She felt Dutch’s arms around her. She felt Hosea’s hope and Arthur’s gaze upon her. Her brother, slow dancing with her in the kitchen on Sunday afternoons. The smell of fresh biscuits and smoked ham, his favorite. She could hear his laugh; she could see his smile. Even after all this time, it never faded away. The memories never go away, the thought of her him with his head -with his chestnut hair and baby blue eyes- resting on her lap. The black soot of coal dust sprinkled on his nose… And, she fired.  _ Pt-kow! _ A split second and the bottle exploded into a hundred pieces. 

“Belief!” Dutch exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air, laughing. “That is what that is! And how sweet it is!”

“My word, I can’t believe I actually hit the thing.” Bess said, giddy, the rush of adrenaline coursing through her

“I told you.” Arthur said, leaning on his post and trying to hide the smug look on his face. “You were aiming past the target.”

“Now, we are ready, Ms McElveen. We are ready for everything!” Dutch said.

“I do believe we are, Mr. Van Der Linde.” Bess agreed, smiling.

Hosea came up beside her. The sight of the broken bottle was nice, sure, but it paled in comparison to the look of pride in the gentleman’s face. The euphoria was infectious and Bess grinned from ear to ear. 

“Careful, Bess. You’d be pretty if it weren’t for that big head of yours.” Hosea said, as he saw her smile.

“What is this? This is the beginning of great things. Great things!” Dutch demanded, standing there looking at the three of them. It was as if his whole body was smiling, proud and faithful. He was a dreamer, Bess realized. And, standing there with a gun in her hand, it was easy to dream with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, considering how much I struggled with this chapter, I'm kinda let down with how short it is. But, i hope you enjoy it anyways. I'm still hammering out some kinks with my characterization of Dutch, but hopefully, he isn't too far off the mark.
> 
> I've got most of the story line figured out and we're definitely still in the exposition stages of things. So, expect a looong fic in the end. Like always, I'm updating as I finish each chapter. I'm kinda writing this thing in segments, so please be patient and you'll be rewarded.
> 
> EDIT: I have twinked two of the major paragraphs in this chapter as of 11/7/19, so no, you're not crazy. The chapter as a whole should flow a little bit smoother, now, and the ending isn't as awkward.


	6. Of Jolliet, Illinois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is the very question, Miss Grimshaw. It’s the question that unites us all: my brother, Hosea, the quaint Miss McElveen, here. Even boneheaded Arthur, here, he asks that question every night before he rests those eyes of his. Life, Miss Grimshaw. When you brush off this mortal coil, what do you want in your very bones?”

The town of Jolliet, Illinois was as far from the mountains as Bess McElveen had ever been. It was a flat, desolate place, quiet at the time of night Bessie, Hosea, Dutch, and Arthur strolled into town. It was flat, devoid of the mountains Bess had taken comfort in since she was a child. A line of chestnut trees decorated the main road, which spearheaded a large red brick house. The mansion was gothic and decadent, three stories, built up with gray rock and red sandstone. A large, commanding tower drew her eye, watching over them all as they hitched the horses. 

A smoky haze lingered on the road, muffling the lamplights with a dense fog. The town seemed to smell of the earth itself, cool and quiet. A few stragglers wandered the road, but aside from a few smoking layabouts, business seemed to be nonexistent. The lack of drunken revelry and the sharp scent of coal spooked her. What was a town without life? 

“Where are all the people?” Arthur asked. 

Hosea took Bess’ arm and the four of them walked on. She tried not to stare at the men they passed, hunched over with ashen faces. The strangers did not greet them nor did they smile as they passed; they persisted, without desire nor decadence. Like a graveyard, they were there, simply there, despite choosing not to be.

But, no matter their appearance, Dutch tipped them his hat and flashed them his smile. When they at last found a bar, a tattered building hidden away behind the general store, Dutch held the door open for her and bowed. The tavern had no music, nor many customers. Two men sat at the bar, nursing drinks given to them by a weasley man in a striped cotton shirt. Another snored softly in the corner, an empty bottle in his hands. Three gentlemen, cleaner than their compatriots, played poker at a table, a stack of change piled high in between them. 

Dutch’s face fell slightly at the sight and Arthur coughed uneasily, as all eyes landed on the four of them. They were crooks, sure, but they weren’t stupid enough to try and rob a man in plain sight. Their homes were in crowds, not in polite conversation. 

“Good evening, fellas.” Hosea smiled. He slid a dollar on the table and asked for a round.

The barkeep poured a whiskey for Dutch and opened a beer for Arthur. Bess asked for sherry, the only liquor she ever saw her mother drink. 

“Sassafras, please.” Hosea said. Bess raised an eyebrow, prompting an explanation. “My father was an ugly drunk.”

“You’re new in town.” The bartender asked gruffly, sliding the last glass forward. He did not grace them with a smile or even a glance, but instead busied himself with the grimy glassware. 

“That we are, my friend.” Dutch said, taking a seat. “And, looking for work.”

The barkeep paused, “What kinda business you in, fella?”

“All sorts.” Dutch said, looking between the three of them, “The lady can shoe a horse, if ya need it. The rest of us layabouts, well, we’re capable of what most men are capable of.”

“Around here, mining’s ‘bout the only thing men seem capable of doing. That and dyin’. But, the mineshaft’s down over by the Grimshaw house, if you’re that desperate.”

“Grimshaw house?” Hosea shared a look with Dutch. “That red brick monstrosity down the street?”

“Mr. Grimshaw owns the shaft and half the town too, if you didn’t hate him already.”

“And, he’s my daddy, so you better keep a civil tongue in that rat nest you call a mouth, mister.” A woman approached and settled at the bar, dressed in a maroon bodice and skirt that more than accentuated her curves. The material was expensive, certainly more than Bess’ father had ever made in a year, even at the best of times. Her dress may have been prim and proper, but her hair was wild. It was long and frayed, barely contained in the stylized bun she kept it in. And, the look she gave the bartender was deadly.

“Miss Grimshaw.” He seethed, his knuckles white. The barkeep steadily placed the whiskey glass in his hand on the counter and filled it, not daring to look her in the eye. Bess liked her immediately. In her world, her old world, woman knitted socks and swept floors and cooked Sunday dinners. They waited on their men and as they waited, the world passed them by. But, the world stopped for Susan Grimshaw. 

“Your father?” Dutch said, his curiosity piqued as he took her hand and place a gentle kiss on her skin. Bess tried not to roll her eyes, hiding her grin in a glass of sherry. He never could ignore a woman asking to be wooed.

“Yes.” She replied.

“I must meet him then,” Dutch said, “if he’s the one I must thank for those radiant eyes of yours.”

She looked taken aback. Bess didn’t miss the expression that passed through her eyes: the look of her world reevaluated, born anew as she looked at Dutch’s face. He rested his back against the bar, broad-chested and proud, smiling as always. Simultaneously, he was a priest, a revolutionary, a rebel without pause. All attention was on him and he bathed in it like holy water. Bess, Hosea, Arthur all hinged on his every word, waiting to share in the confidence, in the wisdom, in the enlightenment that was sure to come in his presence. But, Dutch was not looking at Bess, not Arthur or even Hosea. He was looking at Susan Grimshaw. 

“So, Miss Grimshaw, of Jolliet, Illinois, what do you want?”

“Want?” She said, scoffing, as if she’d never considered it before. “Well, what kind of silly question is that?”

“It is the very question, Miss Grimshaw. It’s the question that unites us all: my brother, Hosea, the quaint Miss McElveen, here. Even boneheaded Arthur, here, he asks that question every night before he rests those eyes of his.  _ Life _ , Miss Grimshaw. When you brush off this mortal coil, what do you want in your very bones?”

Bess knew her answer. She wanted warmth. She wanted her life to be shaded in candlelight. She wanted that inescapable, heartfelt purpose she had once had, then lost. She wanted the very thing Dutch already claimed to have. 

“I want....” Susan Grimshaw said, enraptured. “I want everything.”

“That, my dear, is the correct answer.” Dutch said, pleased. He grabbed her hand and pulled her out onto the floor. 

The place was empty and no music played; the patrons preferred the company of their glasses as they sat scattered about the room. But, nevertheless, Dutch placed a gentle hand on her hip and began to waltz. Bess watched as Dutch whispered something in Susan’s ear. Enraptured: that’s what they were. They were delighted with each other, warm and joyous. It was almost real. Bess finished off her drink.

“Hey,” Hosea said, “what’s going on in that head of yours?”

He reached towards her with a cautious hand and brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear. Bess shook her thoughts away, trying to toss aside her melancholy heart and plaster on a pleasant face. It wouldn’t work, she knew; She wouldn’t fool Hosea. He was too good for that. But, no, she wouldn’t speak those names, not just yet. 

“So, what do you want, Mr. Matthews?” Bess asked, deflecting, “When you shed off this mortal coil?” 

”What do I want?” He laughed sheepishly, all too aware of Dutch’s words being thrown back at him. But, then he was serious. He took in the room, his attention darting from one person to another as he watched them live their lives. Arthur sat alone, dozing off in a corner with his feet propped up on an empty chair. So young and so alone, Bess realized. The brim of his hat was tucked down, his eyes half-closed, as he tried to ignore the chatter of everyone else. “I want Arthur to realize he’s worth something more than just killin’.”

Hosea looked at Dutch, lost in the arms of Susan Grimshaw as they danced. “I want Dutch to be...” He trailed off looking for the right word, “Content.”

“I want you.” He turned to her, managing to catch her off-guard. Not for the last time, Bess found herself lost in his presence: the twinkle in his eyes and the rise of his cheeks, his blues eyes and sandy blonde hair. This is what love is, Bess realized. And, she wondered if she’d loved him from the very first moment she’d set eyes on him. He was the sun, radiant and warm. He was safe. And, for a while, Bess found she could forget her sad heart. 

“We shall see, Mr. Matthews.” Bess said, making no promises. “We shall see.”

“And... I want to rob those fellas blind.” His eyes wandered as something behind her caught Hosea’s attention. 

Bess could see the thrill blossom in Hosea’s face, the hint of mischief that highlighted those effervescent blues. She turned to see three men playing poker amongst themselves at a worn table in the corner. Their clothes were of the lazy, middle class gentlemen, not bothering to clean the soot of the mines from their nice, but ultimately run down clothing. They were brutish men, bossmen, with square faces, who carried themselves with an aura of undeserved confidence. One glance and they reminded Bess of her uncle.

“Well, Mr. Matthews, I may be able to help with that.” Bess said, turning to Dutch for confirmation. “We need money, right?” 

“Always.” He said, not breaking his stride.

“And, we need it now?”

“Sooner  _ does _ tend to be better than later.”

Well then, that settled it. Bess took Dutch’s glass and downed what remained of his drink, abandoned on the bar. The liquor was coarse and she stifled a cough as it burned down her throat. She straightened her shirt, tucked a loose strand of hair back into place, and walked over.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” She smiled, trying her best to flirt. “Got room for one more?”

Bess wasn’t exactly the type of girl they’d been expecting at this time of night. Her hair was frayed. She wore no rouge or lipstick; she still wore the shirt and trousers Hosea had given her a few days prior. She always considered herself a plain woman and, seeing the looks on the men’s faces, she was. 

“Poker table ain’t no place for a lady.” One of them grumbled, not even bothering to look up from his cards. 

“I’m sure I can chaperone.” Dutch approached, a lit cigar in one hand and his whisky glass in the other. Without asking, he unbuttoned his jacket and took a seat, flashing the pistol on his side. Her stomach churned, suddenly nervous. One simple gesture and the entire attitude of the table changed. A threat, unspoken. They sized him up, sitting there in his black vest and silk hat, and wisely decided not to challenge the issue. 

“It’s a dollar buy-in.” The man to his left said sharply behind a cigar.

Dutch smiled and made a show of pulling a bill from his jacket pocket, only to pull out another. He nodded to her and Bess’s nerves quelled at the gesture of confidence. “I’ll cover the lady.”

There were three of them, all of them almost identical with brown hair and worn faces. The man who tried to deny her a place at the table sat between herself and Dutch, sporting a thick handlebar mustache and a greasy comb over. The man to her right made no effort for polite conversation, instead electing to pick the remnants of his dinner from his teeth with his tongue. The third, the one with the cigar, would’ve been handsome, if not for his present company.

Susan took a seat in Dutch’s lap, draping her arms around his neck. It was casual, but possessive. The man with the cigar dealt, sliding each of them a series of three cards before placing another three face up in the center of the table. Bess paused. It was gambling, yes, but she hadn’t quite realized the risk she’d taken. It was as if she’d raced up to a cliffside and forgotten how to jump. Dutch grabbed his cards and, noticing her hesitation, winked. That was all it took, that little gesture of confidence to quell her nerves and Bess picked up her cards without a word.

They were decent. She took a moment and ran the numbers through her head. They weren’t great, pretty low actually, but she could make it work. She glanced in the center: a five and eight of diamonds bordered a Jack of spades. She bit her lip, keeping her expression blank. She could make it work.

The man with the mustache tossed thirty-five cents in the middle, adding to the five dollars that rested there. The man with the cigar rose by a dime, which his friend countered with another quarter. They were cocky, the lot of them, eager to out-bet the other rather than let the cards play out. They looked to Dutch, who, in turn, looked to her.

“Call.” She said. And, he tossed in a handful of coins, covering the both of them.

Arthur had long disappeared. Hosea lingered back behind them, watching from afar. She could feel his eyes on her, watching, evaluating. She was useless with attention. Her stomach fluttered; She wanted nothing more to hide and to stare back at the same time. The dealer tossed out another round of cards, flipping over a ten of clubs for the center. 

The man with the mustache tossed in a dollar, which was followed by another seventy-five cents. Dutch smiled and pushed his hand to the center, face-up and colorful. “I’m out, gentlemen. Too rich for my blood.”

“Dealer folds as well.” The man with the cigar said, tossing his cards aside..

“Call.” Bess said and Dutch matched her words with money.

The man with the mustache another hand, flipping over a sevenof diamonds for the table.. The third man -who’d said nothing until now- muttered a  _ goddammit _ and threw his cards away, standing up and heading to the bar. It was just her now, face to face with the last man standing.

He was a greasy man, in more ways than one. He didn’t like her here, intruding on his little world. That’s okay, she told herself as she set her sights on the man’s wallet. Bess didn’t like him either. She knew the value of a man: a hardworking, loyal, good man. Her father had been one. Her brother, too. This cretin was a boy, in comparison with the both of them. The dealer flipped over the final card.

“Ladies first.” The man said, with enough condensation to make Bess’ blood boil. She didn’t look at the cards. She didn’t look to Dutch. This was her moment. Her moment.

“3 dollars.” She said, boldly, staring at her opponent. The bet seemed to offend him and he curled his upper lip in disdain. But, slowly, Dutch plucked out one dollar, a second, and a third out from his billfold.

The gentleman sneered, his teeth brown with tobacco, as he placed three dollars out onto the table, followed by everything he had. “You ain’t never gonna win this.”

“Don’t say never to me.” Bess seethed. She gestured to Dutch, demanding, “Match it.”

Dutch paused, looking Bess dead in the eye. He took the cigar from his mouth, down to a wet stub of paper and nicotine, and steadily extinguished it on an ashtray. With a pat on the rear, Susan rose from her seat and Dutch, ever-evaluating, leaned forward and threw his wallet in the center. No one said anything. Susan stood, her hands resting on Dutch’s shoulders. All eyes were locked in on the cards. The room was a clenched fist, tense, holding its breath. Her opponent lowered his hand. 

“Full house, boys.” The man with the mustache splayed his cards on the table, smirking. “Queens over Jacks.”

The table exploded with sound. Susan winced. Dutch frowned, while the man’s compatriots clapped each other on the back, laughing and pleased with themselves. 

“I am very sorry.” Bess’s voice cracked, trying to speak over the ruckus. They almost didn’t notice. They paid her no mind as she flipped over one card after another after another. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Two in the center and three in her hand. All red. All diamonds. “I do believe the money is mine.”

But, slowly and surely, the room fell silent. The man’s jaw dropped. The table paused, taking in the sight of the cards. The dealer stared, wide-eyed, as ash fell from his smoking cigar. The other one laughed in disbelief. Then, anger.

“How the hell does a woman get a straight flush?” Her opponent yelled, banging his fist on the table. He rose, his nostrils flaring as he looked accusingly from Bess to Dutch. “What kind of game are you crooks playing at?”

“I did not cheat, sir.” Bess said, her voice stern.

“Damn right you did!” He reached for the gun on his hip. “I’m getting robbed here!”

“You might want to rethink that, fella.” Arthur suddenly appeared, chest to chest with the brute as he placed a firm hand on the man’s gun. “I think you’ll quickly realize the woman won the money fair and square.”

“I don’t want no trouble, ya hear.” The barkeep spoke up, his tone firm. “I don’t care how much money you lost, Eunace.”

The gentleman looked at Dutch and Arthur to Bess and the bartender. His face contorted in frustration. His nostrils flared. Considering it a lost cause, he let go of his pistol and wrenched himself free of Arthur’s grip. He pointed a heavy finger at Susan and said, “Your daddy’s gonna hear about this!”

Miss Grimshaw took a few steps forward, with a hand on her hip, and pulled a long draw from Dutch’s cigar. She flicked the ash in his general direction. “By all means, please do. I’m sure he’ll think more of you for it.”

One of the men laughed, drunk and amused at his own friend’s frustration. The other brought Dutch a drink and clapped him on the back. The room turned against him, all eyes jeering as the tension eased. The beer flowed, followed by harder liquor. The mockery set in and the man’s face went red. He balled his fists and, with a frustrated groan, turned tail, slamming his body through those double doors, onto the street, as fast as his feet would carry him. 

***

The laughter was warm and rich as lantern light. The hotel room quaint; the walls were thin and it certainly small for the five of them, each settling in different places as they passed a bottle around. Dutch, of course, took the armchair, his lap adorned by Miss Grimshaw. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair slipped through the tight bun, falling frayed and loose to frame her face. Bess had occupied the only other chair as Hosea leaned against the windowsill, content. Arthur took the floor, back propped up against a bedpost. 

“Seventy six dollars,” Dutch exclaimed. “Seventy six dollars and a story to tell, Miss McElveen!” 

The cretin could talk a fair game,” Arthur said, “but if he’s dumb enough to carry that much in his wallet, he was dumber than he looked.”

“Oh, the whole lot of ‘em were right geniuses.” Hosea smirked, fishing three gold pocket watches from his vest and placing them on the table. “I managed to sneak these when they weren’t looking. They were too busy looking at her cards.”

“This town has some life to it after all!” Dutch exclaimed, dividing the money evenly between them. “Fifteen dollars and twenty cents for each of you. Splendid job, Miss. McElveen. Hosea, my brother, you too, as always.”

“You are a right scoundrel, the lot of you.” Susan said, failing to keep the smile off her face, kissing him as she pocketed her share.

Bess stared at the money in her hand, amazed and amused, before saying, “I don’t even have a wallet.” 

“The woman doesn’t even have a wallet!” Dutch laughed, “Hosea Matthews, if you are a gentleman of any worth, you will take this woman out tomorrow morning and dress her in the finest clothes this town has to offer.”

“She can’t wear your clothes forever.” Arthur agreed.

“I quite like them.” Bess said, softly. Hosea gave her a smile and winked, proud. Her heart fluttered and the red rose to her cheeks.

The sound of a woman’s scream cut them off. It was distant, but chilling. The cry was painful, degrading into sobs. Bess looked away, trying to ignore it. Dutch stood up and walked to the window, examining the street below. Bess could see the tension rise in his shoulders. He clutched the windowsill, as if to brace himself, as if the weight of the world was his responsibility.

“Three gold watches. But, what are we surrounded with?” Dutch said, his mood souring, “Sorry creatures! Widows begging on the street! You can’t sleep but for the sound of children coughing.”

“The mine and dying. That’s what the barkeep said.” Hosea said, bitter.

“My daddy does it on purpose.” Susan spoke up, “Thinks a growling belly will make them work harder.”

“Work  _ harder _ ?” Dutch questioned, whispering to himself. “What is mining except cruelty born out of capitalistic greed? It is slavery in another form, where the chains of laborers are forged in the businessman’s desire for fortune and influence?”

“We’re criminals. Why?” Dutch turned, raising his voice, “To spite our mothers and perturb our fathers?”

“The world is cruel, Dutch. What do you propose we do?” Bess asked, slightly exasperated, “What can people like us do?”

“We do what we do best.” Hosea said, “We take.”

Arthur nodded as the momentum of the conversation garnered speed. “We hurt them where it counts.” 

“The bank.” The words blurted from Susan’s mouth. “My father has $20,000 in the back safe.”

The room fell silent, taking in the gravity of what she had said. 

“20,000 dollars?” Dutch asked, incredulous.

“What are you saying?” Arthur said, “We rob it?”

“That’s exactly what’s being proposed, son.” Hosea said.

“I don’t know about you, Dutch, but I prefer my neck intact, thank you very much.”

“And, what happens when the bank goes under? What happens when mortgages fail? When people lose jobs?” Bess exclaimed. “They riot. Who are we helping then?”

“You know anything about mining, Miss McElveen?” Hosea said. “Trust me, if anyone hears those gentlemen lost a couple of bills, they’d thank us for it.”

“Twenty thousand is more than just a couple of bills!” Bess yelled. Her voice betrayed her fear.

Arthur shook his head, “They’re cruel men. No better than the bank they work for-”

“I do not need you to enlighten me about the cruelties of the mining industry, Mr. Morgan!” Bess scorned. 

“That being said,” Susan crossed her arms, uncertain. “He is still my father.”

Dutch grasped her shoulders, then gently plucked a loose hair away from her face. He smiled and she melted at his fingertips. “Consider it a loan, then. After we’re done with that bank of theirs, there’ll be more than enough to go around.”

“Now, we ain’t done nothing of this scale before, Dutch…” Hosea hesitated.

“Brother, where is your sense of adventure?” Dutch slammed his fist on the table. “It is _right. t_ _ here _ . Fit for the taking!”

The outburst quelled the nervous chaos between them. Bess held her head in hands, hunched forward. She didn’t want to do this. But, Hosea wouldn’t say no, neither would Arthur. Not when Dutch asked. 

“The money. What’s it for?” Bess asked, grinding her teeth.

“What?” 

“The twenty thousand.” She said. “What does your father use the money for?”

“It’s insurance. He keeps a little extra in case of collapse. He uses it to...” Susan paused, “Pay off the widows.”

Bess recoiled sharply. Her anger was fierce and immediate, but it faded and gave way to something deeper. And, when no one said anything, when the silence settled, she could feel his heavy presence even then, watching and waiting form above, placing the burden on her shoulders. She let out a deep breath, solemn. She missed him, so very deeply in that moment.  _ Isiah… _ His eyes haunted her, green and joyous and full of life. Her mother had graced him with the name of salvation and, despite her education, her ability, her prestige, Bess had failed. So, she would do this. 

“I’m in.” She whispered.

One by one, they each resigned to the task at hand. Dutch had long agreed and stood over Arthur with silent expectation. The boy wouldn’t say no. Hosea nodded, distracted, already planning and throwing out plans in his head. Susan leaned back into Dutch, an unspoken gesture of comfort as she tried to ease herself into the decision she had just made, the side she had just taken. Like all of them, at one time or another, she had nothing left now. 

“Well, if we’re going to do it, we better do it right.” She said, matter of fact.

Arthur had pulled out his revolvers and begun cleaning them. His hands were worn and greasy, as he mumbled, “I already know my part.”

“Good lad.” Dutch grinned. 

“I expect it’ll be the usual, then?” Hosea stood up. He pulled the desk out to the center of the room, rifling through the drawers. He grabbed a Bible and, rejecting its value, tore open the pages and spread them out on the table. He brought out a pencil and, with Dutch looking on from behind, the two con men began planning a bank robbery. “I start talking and you’ll follow up with something a little more than talking?”

“Its the money y’all will have to worry about.” Susan said. “In cash, it’ll take the strength of the three of you to carry it out.”

“It’ll take time.” 

“We’ll expect a fight, then?”

“A chase, more like it.”

“That depends on the horses, of course.” Dutch interjected, as Hosea and Arthur went back and forth between the other. He looked at her, the gold of his vest glimmering in the candlelight, expecting her input. 

“Bessie?” Hosea asked.

Bess was silent. She sat there, half caught between the family that only lived in her dreams and the one that stood before her now. It was the start of something. Even she was smart enough to realize that. But, it was time. So, she rose, joined Hosea at Dutch’s side, and gave it her all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the patience, everyone! As always, leave a comment below! (It makes me write faster.) Next chapters are always posted once I'm done with them.
> 
> With the conclusion of this chapter, I am officially done with the exposition of the story! Bess has committed and so have I. I know it is a long chapter, but the two scenes are so complimentary, I had to pair them together. 
> 
> Enjoy! Leave a comment below!


	7. Grit, Sweat, & Love: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, in a flicker, Bess saw the ever so brief contemplation cross his mind, as the consequences of this day, this robbery, would play out over the rest of their lives. It would take every ounce of grit, sweat, and love they had to give. To sacrifice. This would change them, all of them, forever.

The smell of musk had always greeted Bess with comfort. In the morning of the day, the haze of sulfur and rock had long been abandoned, replaced with the scent of dirt and the sound of a hammer hitting a nail. _Clink Clink. Clink._ Her entire body buzzed, filled with questions and jitters, each of which fueled the other. Dutch had a plan, she reminded herself, if only the thought had given her the calm she so desperately needed. Faith. What would it take for her to have a little faith? Of course, she hadn’t slept a wink. Hosea had slept like the dead. No, no, she didn’t quite like that metaphor. Hosea had slept like a log; Arthur, too, as they snored side by side on the only bed they could afford. Bess was the one who couldn’t manage to shut her eyes, mulling over every angle with worry. What if? What if? The question made her heart race. It made her head ache. It taunted her, leaving her with only her mind and Dutch for company.

He joined her, afterwards, wordlessly sitting across from her on the balcony of the hotel, long after he had left Susan’s side. Together, they listened to the sounds of the city: of hounds braying in the distant, as hungry as their masters, as the dim flicker of lantern light cast the ramshackled scenery into amber shadows. His face, lit only by the smolders of his cigar, betrayed nothing. But, peaceful sleep belonged only to those with a calm mind and weightless heart. And, the same bags that had crept under her eyes aged him as well. He muttered something to her, so low she barely caught the words. And, so, Bess guessed the same questions haunted him too. 

Bess’s hands worked quickly, efficiently, as she stood hunched over, grasping the hoof of Hosea’s horse firmly in between her legs. She always liked the filing of the hooves, taking a rough surface and making it smooth. A pile of shavings and dirt had fallen discarded onto the floor of the stables as she gripped the farrier knife in between her teeth. Her tongue was quickly met with the taste and grit of dirt. But, Bess didn’t mind. It was real. The work was real. Like her father had done before her, Bess had taken her nerves out in her work.

She reached over and pulled the horseshoe out from the coals, the iron beautiful and red hot. Would it give her luck this day? Would it scare off the devil, like the Irish grannies had told her as a child, hiding their tales behind half darned socks? _Sshhhish..._ Smoke rose as metal met nail. Half a dozen pops was all it took before the horseshoe was fastened in place. Bess tossed the hammer aside and examined her work. The pad was clean. No redness around the rim. The foot was level. She smiled, for a moment, and dropped the foot.

“Good girl.” Bess said, giving the mare a nice rubbing on her side. 

She paused and rested her forehead against her flank. The fatigue had caught up with her. Bess closed her eyes and simply breathed, her life ebbing in and out in time with the creature. The hair bristled against her nose, engulfing her with a primal warmth. The _thud, thud, thud_ of the animals heartbeat resounded in her ears. For a moment, she lost herself, forgetting what the day held for her. 

“See, this is why I quit drinking.” Hosea approached, “A woman as pretty as you should not be that hungover.”

“Bite your tongue, Mr. Matthews.” Bess poked back. It was only half true. 

“With you trying to keep up with Miss Grimshaw and Miss Grimshaw trying to keep up with Dutch, well…I did admire the gumption, at least.”

“I feel as if I’ve drunk a trough of coffee.” She didn’t feel hungover. Now that the work was finished, her whole body felt like lightning in a bottle.

Hosea settled up to the mare, giving her a soft scratch on the chin. “It will be alright, you know.”

“Will it?”

“Yes.” He said the word without hesitation, without question, and stared at her with such confidence that Bess wondered if he could simply will it all into existence. Faith. Such a simple word. Dutch had demanded it. Hosea had given it, freely and flawlessly. 

“Have you decided on a name?” Bess asked, putting her tools away. 

“Ithaca.” He said, petting the creature. 

“Oh?” She smiled, already admiring the the name, the horse, and him. 

“Spent a few years in a traveling troupe, a while back, back before all this. Best role I ever played. The wily Odysseus! The clever bastard spends ten years trying to get home, just to kill everyone and become king of the whole damn island.”

“Sounds rather villainous, I think.”

“No, no. Not at all. He didn’t do it for power or money. Revenge I could understand, even... But, he did it for love. For his wife and son.” He said, nostalgic. “A grand rescue! I could always relate to that at least.”

“I’ve never read it.” She admitted, sheepishly. 

“Oh, it’s a great story, Bessie. It really is.” Hosea smiled, broad and infectious, as if he could make the story come true between the two of them. 

Faith. Such a simple word. 

***

The nerves Bess had felt this morning had only amplified. Frankly, she had trouble standing still. She paced back and forth, checking and rechecking the horses bridles in an attempt to keep her hands busy. She kept glancing towards the entrance, thinking somehow the place would disappear. Lee and Hoyt Central Bank. 

They gathered across the street from bank shortly before 2 o’clock in the afternoon. Hosea had, indeed, bought her a new dress: a dark tartan skirt with matching green blouse. The plan was in place. They all had their tasks. Susan Grimshaw had left, gone to settle into the safe house that would hide them after the deed was done. Dutch had long memorized the layout of the back safe. Hosea had plotted the escape route, ensuring they would be able to flee the city on horseback, only to circle back under the cover of night. She had prepared the horses. Arthur had polished his guns. 

Hosea and herself had scouted the bank a few days prior. The entrance was grand: two oak doors with gold enlay, surrounded by whitewashed scaffolding and an eggshell blue interior. The bank itself was quaint, but in a town such as Jolliet, anything not covered in soot was considered grandiose. The interior would be small, composed of several bookkeeping desks and a single teller laid behind an iron gate partition. It had, among its amenities: a small mailing office, safety deposit boxes, and a single, protected vault. And, what lay inside was the business end of a bullet and twenty thousand dollars.

“You’ll be alright.” Arthur said to her, his gaze never leaving the entrance. 

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

“All we want is the money. Now, we ain’t exactly gonna ask nicely, but no ones gonna get hurt lest they do something foolish.” Arthur said, keeping his voice low. “That pistol ready?”

Bess nodded, looking down at the ground. Her heart was in her throat; her stomach lurched as she thought about the gun hidden in the back folds of her skirt. She leaned against Reunion, hoping the sturdy beast would help steady her. 

“If we wait any longer, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Arthur smirked, amused at her own jitteriness and the reversal of roles they had found themselves in. She was more than fifteen years his senior and yet, here he stood before her as calm as a millpond. He gave Sweetrose a pat on the neck before turning away.

“Yeah, you’ll be alright.” 

Dutch checked his pocket watch and passed a glance between the three of them. The time had come. He drew his bandanna past his nose, obscuring everything but the eyes, and placed his hand on his revolver. Bess tied hers behind her hair, a dark purple handkerchief. Hosea’s followed, then Arthur’s. One by one, the grit had settled in their hearts and hardened their resolve. It was just _business_.

They walked fast, bee-lining for the door. One breath in. One breath out. That was all it took before they were there. Dutch barreled through the entrance, leading the charge as he slammed the doors ajar. Then the world exploded into noise.

The men were screaming. Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea all scattered immediately, canvassing the lobby with their guns raised. Everyone was yelling, yelling threats, yelling pleas, yelling in fear. They spoke harshly and backed their words with the muzzle of a gun. In the short jaunt across the street, Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea had somehow been replaced by strangers. They had disappeared. They had turned into outlaws. 

Arthur walked straight for the teller, a young, lanky fella dressed in a suit that didn’t quite fit him. With his large shoulders and hard jawline, Arthur, a boy of twenty, towered over him and firmly, without nonsense, pointed a shotgun directly in his face. “Throw up your hands.”

His mouth fell open and the pen dropped from his hands, splattering ink over the polished table. He raised his hands in the air without a word. 

Dutch leapt onto a desk, commanding all eyes on him. Pistol aimed high, his yell cut through the chaos. “Ladies and gentlemen, if it has not been made abundantly clear, this is a bank robbery! My fine patriotic friends and I are going to relieve you of some of that gold and introduce a few folks here to the benefits of civilization."

“Ma’am, I do believe you will find the view a bit more comfortable from the ground.” Hosea gestured to a woman in a velvet dress, who stood frozen in the center of the bank. In the span of less than two minutes, he had corralled six strangers to the front wall, all staring wide-eyed and mouth agape, and forced them to their knees. The woman, her body shaking, merely nodded and walked over to the wall and placed her hands behind her head.

Bess kept her gun close, but did nothing. She merely took Hosea’s place and stood guard. Seven unlucky strangers stood before her, each looking at her with fearful eyes. She saw them. She looked at them, really looked at each and every one of them. A husband and wife. A mother, clutching her teenage boy. An elderly rancher, dressed in a shaggy suit... What had he come here to do? Her pistol felt heavy and foreign in her hand. This was the power she had been delegated: to hold sway over these people’s lives. To Dutch, To Arthur, To Hosea, these people were little more than complications. Why trouble yourself with the mess that is humanity when $20,000 was in the next room? Doubt was not a convenient emotion, yet, in the midst of chaos, Bess could not shake it.

Dutch dropped down from the desk and grabbed her by the shoulder, bringing her in close. The gesture was rough and she could smell the scent of tobacco on his breath. 

“It is _not_ these people’s money we are after. It is his! It is. Robert. Grimshaw’s. You hear me?” He whispered, harsh, but barely audible. “Are you with me?”

So, now was the moment he would demand it of her. Faith. Amongst their dirty deeds and the muddled reeds of life, he would demand it of her. And, she would give it. Not as freely or flawlessly as the rest, but he had her faith. 

“Always, Dutch.” 

“Good.” He said. He shook her slightly, as relief seemed to sturdy him. “Good.”

“We gonna do this, Dutch?” Arthur called, his shotgun still aimed at the teller’s head. Hosea had joined his side by the safe, tucked away in the corner, but, like the loyal lieutenants they were, they waited for Dutch’s cue.

Bess never knew Dutch to hesitate. His faith -in this world, in his family, in himself- was always unyielding. Dutch was unyielding. Yet, there he paused, face to face with an invisible mountain. And, in a flicker, Bess saw the ever so brief contemplation cross his mind, as the consequences of this day, this robbery, would play out over the rest of their lives. It would take every ounce of grit, sweat, and love they had to give. To sacrifice. This would change them, all of them, forever. Only Dutch had the authority to make the call. He was the only one they would follow, blindly into the dark, as he pulled them all steadily up to the mountainside. _And, so the Lord said, tell the mountain to move and the mountain will move._ The scripture flashed across her mind. And, so Dutch gave the command with a nod of his head.

“Open the safe, friend.” Hosea asked. The four of them stood at the bank vault door, as Arthur held the teller with one arm around his neck. 

“He ain’t gonna repeat himself, now.” Arthur pulled back the hammer on his gun with a loud click. 

“I’ll do it! Christ, I’ll do it.” The teller begged. “Uh, eight. Sixteen. Thirty-two. That’s the combination.” 

“You telling the truth, buddy?” Arthur pressed the barrel of the gun into his flesh.

“Christ, I ain’t lying! Try it for yourselves!”

Hosea -being the brains of the operation- knelt down and began to fiddle with the dial. The noise and chaos had faded away and now all anyone could hear was the _tick tick tick_ of a tumblr, spinning round and round. No one dared breathe. All eyes watching. All eyes hopeful until… Eight. Sixten. Thirty-two. It was undone and with a mighty heave, the safe opened and dashed all of their dreams.

“Dutch?” Bess called out, unsure and unaware. 

She was pacing, now, trying not to look at the line-up strangers that knelt before her. The farmer prayed, his hands clasped together in silent trepidation. The old man, the one closest to the door, coughed. One woman simply stared, her eyes never leaving Bessie’s face. The strangers were getting nervous, feeding on the silence that had fallen on Lee and Hoyt Central Bank. 

The three men stared into the safe, mouths agape, as their hearts sunk deeper and deeper into their gullet with every passing second. The vault, no bigger than a water closet, was lined with shelves on every wall. Yet, they held neither gold nor bonds nor jewelry. Three canvas bags, the size of flour sacks, sat solitary on the ground. No life savings were stored here. The tellers could not distribute a loan, even if they wanted to. Lee & Hoyt Central Bank, along with the entire town of Jolliet, Illinois, was broke. 

“Where’s the rest?” 

“The rest? What do you mean, the rest?” The teller squeaked.

Arthur shook him. “Where’s the rest of the twenty grand? Damn you!”

“Twenty grand?” The teller backpedaled, afraid. “Mr. Grimshaw hasn’t had $20,000 in that safe since the end of the war!”

Dutch simmered for a moment, stewing in his own anger, until at last he said, “It seems I have been greatly misinformed, gentleman.”

“There’s gotta be five thousand here, at least. Ain’t that enough, Dutch?” Hosea asked.

Bess couldn’t ignore them, as much as wanted to. The seven strangers simply watched her, their eyes following her, as she paced back in forth in front of them. More acutely, they watched her gun. All except one. The old man was really coughing now. It was harsh and deep and the sound of it made her chest hurt. The sound of wheezing set her on edge, as the man clasped at his own chest trying to catch his breath. The woman in purple, along with her husband, gripped his hand, trying to calm him down. Yet, the coughing would not stop. 

“Lady, he can’t take this!” The woman yelled, “What kinda animal are you?” 

She looked at Bess with hatred in her eyes. It scared her. Never in her life had she been faced with such… honest malice. Bess didn’t deserve that. Did she? She wanted her to understand, she wanted to make the woman understand, but words escaped her. 

“Dutch?” Bess called back, questioning. The husband was eyeing the door, inching closer and closer to the exit. Bessie was too. She wanted out.

The old man was pale, his face red with exertion. Bess took a step forward, wanting to help, but stopped herself. The husband slowly got to his knees, watching her wrestle with her own mind as he tested the very reaches of her doubt. She wasn’t robbing them. Wasn’t she? Stay in line. Just stay in line. That was all they had to do. But, what would she do? What should she do? Bess started bargaining with herself, trying to reconcile her own morality with the real possibility of this man dying before her very eyes. Please, let him live. Bess let a silent prayer up to the heavens. Let him live. The money isn’t worth it. 

But, it was worth Arthur. It was worth Dutch and Hosea. It was worth it all, over and over again. _‘Protect them’,_ Dutch had said. That sleepless night on the front porch of the hotel, with only the stars and the braying of dogs to keep them company, he had commanded it of her. And, with that, Bess’ priorities announced themselves, sharp and sudden like the drop of a hammer. She would die bleeding for this family. And, no God or man would tell her otherwise. She drew the hammer back, bringing it about two inches from the man’s face. She hoped he couldn’t see the slight tremor in her hand. More than anything, she hoped he was a coward. 

“Back in line.”

The man gulped and fell back into his seat. His wife cradled him, pulling him close to her. Not a coward, no, but a family man. Stay in line. Just stay in line. The sound of wheezing startled her. The old timer was coughing again. He inhaled, his cheeks trembling, only to collapse on his side as the hacking returned. Bess took a step forward, wanting to help. If he could only catch his breath-

At once, the husband was gone. He bolted out the door and onto the street, the double doors closing behind him with such finality that it made her heart sink.

“Dutch!” Bess called. “Time’s up!”

“Grab what we can. Let us make our exit from high society.” Dutch commanded, abandoning the vault. He bounded around the corner, his expression sour, and fired two shots into the ceiling. “Let’s ride!” 

Bess holstered her pistol and whistled, loud and sharp. She was second in line, behind Dutch, bursting out into the street. The sunshine felt fresh on her skin, a touch of heaven and a breath of relief all in one, and her soul was freed. Out here, in the clean air, she could die happy. 

Bess leapt up onto her horse, spinning him round, ready for the chase. Arthur and Hosea weren’t far behind, with the money on their shoulders. Like swarming locusts, the lawmen began to appear from the woodwork, bounding after them. The sight was… exhilarating. Adrenaline coursed through her, as Prince Reunion pawed at the ground, ready to run. Dutch fired wildly from his hip, ducking behind his horse, trying to keep the officers at bay. She drew her gun and lined up her sights. Her eye settled on a broad-chested young man with red hair, barreling towards them. Bess fired. The bullet hit; his head transformed into a spray of blood and bone. It was business and, for a little while, her conscience was mute.

Men and women fled from the streets as the town descended into chaos. Bullets were flying; wood splintered into the air. One of the bank’s windows shattered into pieces behind their heads and three officers fell dead into the dirt. Bess looked at the four of them, now mounted on their horses, and her mouth dropped. She understood now, why the woman back at the bank had hated her so. They were... mighty. They wore the devil on their backs. And, it was easy. Bess dug her spurs in. 

She patted Prince Reunion on the neck, her nostrils filling with the comforting smell of dirt. Hooves hit the dirt, dust flew, and they ran.

_Come on, boy. Show ‘em what you're made of._

It didn’t take long before the city was behind them. The frontier was all that was left before them, rolling green prairies splayed open as they fled towards freedom and dreams. _Pop! Pop! Pop!_ The bullets hit hard dirt, a few inches below their feet. A dozen coppers on horseback had come charging after them, rolling through the hills like the plague incarnate. Arthur drew his pistols, firing blindly backwards into the crowd. Dutch and Hosea fired, too. One man fell into the dirt, another’s horse crumpled beneath them. Dust mixed with blood and more and more fell. 

_Pop! Pop! Pop!_ Another hailstorm of bullets flew threw the air, but hit nothing. Bess hated them. She hated every one of them. They would force her hand and she hated them for it. Couldn’t they see they were just trying to survive? Sweetrose was slowing down, falling back a few lengths behind Dutch. But, she would hold. The beast was loyal and true. She would endure and Arthur along with her. The coppers’ beasts were no match for her horses. Bess kept her eyes on the horizon. With it came freedom, with rolling grasses of blue and green. It was beautiful and wild and free...

 _Pop! Pop!_ Another round of bullets cut through the air and then- A bullet hit flesh and a loud whiny reverberated in the air. Bessie’s heart dropped. The realization hit her like a stone as she turned to see the gash of red open up on the animal’s thigh. It was Hosea’s horse. Ithaca faltered, and for a brief & terrifying moment, Bessie thought the horse would fall, but she rode on, regaining her stride. 

Bess locked her heels into the stirrups, hoisting herself forward on the saddle. She didn’t lock her knees, no, but rolled with every hoofbeat that shook through the Heartlands. She could feel the gallop of her horse underneath her, the twinge of his muscles as he ran faster, the breath pushing through his lungs as he pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion. It was poetry, the hard-fought prose of sweat and trust that brought her and him together. Bessie let go of the reins. 

The rifle was what she needed. She drew the gun from its holster, feeling the weight of it in her hands, the heat of the metal on her skin. _Pkow!_ She fired, her shoulder whipping back with the force of the recoil. Yet, the lawmen rode on, unharmed.

“Goddamnit.” Bess cursed. One pull and another bullet slipped into the chamber. She fired again. The crack rang in her ears and yet, she hit nothing. “Dutch, he’s not gonna make it!” 

Dutch turned, a flash of worry on his face, but pressed on. His face hardened. His eyes set onward, he said, “He’ll make it!”

The limp was harsher now. The horse was struggling. Her sides seized up and down, trying to breathe. Ithaca, poor Ithaca, named after a home, after a dream, after a promise made from husband to wife... a promise Hosea had made to her. She threw her head, huffing in pain, pressing onward. The creature wouldn’t last. And when she fell, so would he.

“Hosea!” Bess called out to Arthur, who looked behind him, confirming what she herself knew. A thought passed between them, a vow from one to the other. Bess tossed the rifle to him. “Cover me!”

She pulled back hard on the reins. Reunion planted his hooves in the dirt, spurring up dust as he pivoted harshly. Bess locked on Hosea, his eyes wide with fear and pistol forgotten. With two hands on the reins, it was all he could do to keep control. Bess dug her spurs in and charged. The lawmen followed close behind, slowly closing in as Ithaca lost more and more ground. And, there she was, going the wrong way.

“Hiyah!” 

Prince Reunion ducked his head down; his feet hitting the dirt, unbound and relentless. There was no stopping them now. The bullets whizzed past her ear, one after another, hitting flesh and men alike. With each shot, another fell, meeting the dirt with a final and impolite thud until there was only one left standing. Bess damned him and feared him in equal measure. She gripped the reins and each of them raced towards the other, life and death, with Hosea in the middle. The lawman’s gun was raised; his finger rested on the trigger. _He will not fall. He will not fall. Please._

Reunion would not stop, Bess realized. He couldn’t, not with the momentum the beast had built up. It would be easier asking a train to stop as it plummeted off a cliff.

“Jump, Hosea!” Bessie reached out, trying to reach for his arm. Her fingers brushed his. She was so close. Everything she wanted, everything she loved was within reach, yet so close to slipping away. Hosea pushed off and-

 _Bang!_ The lawman slumped in his saddle. From Arthur or Dutch, Bessie never knew whose gun the bullet had come from. She didn’t look back, but watched as the blood oozed from the man’s chest, staining the cotton of his shirt. And, he too, fell into the dirt.

Silence fell. It felt heavy and odd, as the sound of gunshot was forgotten. Hoofbeats and heartbeats were all that remained. The sun shone high and a gleam of sweat coated them both as she felt his body pressed into hers. Bessie and Hosea said nothing. For a moment, they rode on, simply catching their breath. It was as if she were in a dream, where the world was wide-eyed and vibrant, but never felt quite real. He was holding her. They were alive. Even as she felt his arms around her, she didn’t quite believe it. 

“I thought I’d lost you.” Bessie said. Her voice cracked.

“Not yet.” That was all he said.

But the peace that had overcome them was shattered by screaming. Not a human scream, but the long, drawn-out, pained whinny of a horse dying in the dirt. It was the fate she had condemned the creature to, the day Bess picked up a gun and left her homestead. Consequences, direct and dirty. Her heart broke, helpless to ease the animal’s suffering. She turned-

“Don’t look.” Hosea said. But, she had to.

Ithaca, poor Ithaca. Her leg wobbled and her body hit the ground with a heavy thud. The animal jerked her head, trying to rise, only to fall again when her legs gave out. The beast was ragged and weary, slowing as the blood pooled underneath her. Bess turned away, whimpering, unable to watch. Horses did not die with grace. Like all God’s creatures, she would die with her eyes open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally posted about a month ago. As I began finishing out the chapter, I decided to majorly overhaul the piece, so major passages have been edited and reposted! Enjoy!


	8. Grit, Sweat, & Love: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hosea?” Bess whispered. Her eyes traced his form, the curve of his neck, of his back, of his hips. He didn’t dare to look at her, not at this hour. But, she wanted him to look. Desire gripped her. Those eyes... She would die, happily, her own body rotting into the grass if she could look at those eyes. But, at last, he opened them. And, he looked back.

Naturally, it was Sunday. It didn’t take long before the crowds swarmed them. Dirty men and women -who hadn’t seen a meal in days- stood in silent vigil, asking for money. Faces upon dreary faces surrounded them on all sides with outstretched hands and Dutch had dreams for them all. He blessed them, slipping money into their hands with a kind smile and without a word. There was a purity in the moment, a gift given with grace and thanksgiving, and Bess watched as one by one, they left his side with warm hearts. 

“Thank you, mister.”

“Bless you, mister.” 

It was a chorus of whispered gratitude, a chorus of prayers only for Dutch. A gaunt woman with wire hair clasped his hands and kissed him. A small boy and girl clung to her skirts.

“You just get those kids a proper supper, ya hear?” 

Bess remembered the last time her father had brought her to church, the tears streaming down his face as he stared at the casket of her mother and infant brother. Yet, she was not sad. It was her earliest memory, not of loss, but of his hands. Her tiny fingers clasped in the rough calloused hands of her father. The warmth and safety she had felt, it comforted her, even now as the days of childhood had long since faded away. And, in the shadow of Dutch van der Linde, it didn’t seem so far away.

To her, believing God was easy. It seemed logical, even, to trust in the heavens and the plan life held for her. But, to trust in man? A man, even one as unyielding as Dutch? That was hard and simple, in equal measure. 

Ah! She heard it, in the distance. Yelling. As the sound pierced the veil of her daydreams, she looked up, but as the masses crowded around them, all she saw was sorry faces. Nothing but the wind and crying children. And, for a moment, she thought she had imagined it.

“Thievin’ son of a bitch!”

She pushed past them all, all of the lost men, desperate women, and hungry children. An instinct stirred in her, pushing her to move forward, and soon, she was rushing through the crowd. Dutch and Hosea were lost in an instant; her place in the crowd swallowed by desperate bodies. As if on eggshells, she walked onwards, spurred on by a deep sense of foreboding while held back by necessary bout of caution. She turned the corner. She ran her hand over crumbling brick, the last pillars of civilization that had not begun to rot.

Two men, a pig trough, and a drowning boy. As she turned the corner, that is what she saw. They were large men, with bulging shoulders and worn clothes. They were working men -worried men- with wives and babies to care for and mothers to worry over their graves. Yet, Bessie stood there frozen, stunned by the violence. It was so close, less than 3 feet away, and she stood silent, unable to connect the dots.

Each man had a hand on the boy, holding him underwater even as he thrashed and grasped for air. His fingers clutched at the sides of the metal bin, trying to pull himself up. Yet, it caused only ripples.

One of the men turned, noticing her presence. “Hey, what are you-”

The boy lurched up from the water, gasping for breath. His face was blue, the life half gone from his skin already. Before her stood a ghost, gasping and pale, identical to a face she had not seen in over a decade. It wasn’t Isiah. But, Benjamin… Benjamin, the childish boy who thrived under sunshine and smiled so deeply he had laugh lines at the age of fourteen. Benjamin, the boy who built fences, who hammered nails, who mended leaky rooftops. Benjamin, her father’s pride and joy. Her brother.

The boy slammed an elbow backwards trying to break the man’s grip, but they only plunged him deeper into the water. They were killing him. The thought -dreadful and horrifying- shook her all at once and she launched herself forward, screaming.

“Stop it! You let him go!”

With ease, he shoved her aside and she fell, her head slamming back into brick.The boy once more burst from the water, sucking in air. Water splashed over the sides of the trough and drenched the lot of them.

“Stay out of this!” He yelled, stern, before turning back to the boy. 

“I said, let him go.” She growled, her teeth bared. 

Bess’ body was shaking, infuriated, and as she got to her feet she pulled the pistol from her skirts. She aimed it true, right for the chest. It was different this time; this was no accident. No tussle over a kitchen table, no. In the moment, she was nothing more than an animal. She would kill this man. And, yet they paid her no mind.

The men plunged the boy back in the water. His eyes were bloodshot and confused, snot dripping form his nose, and he didn’t even protest. The fight was gone from the kid, causing little more than a ripple as his head was thrust under. 

The shot was quiet, if such a thing were possible. Maybe Bess didn’t hear it. She didn’t think about it, certainly. She simply squeezed the trigger, the final click of a gear slipping into place, the last one needed to set the clock into motion. 

She missed the heart. Six inches to the left and she pierced the lung. The man grasped his chest and, as the blood flowed, he dropped to his knees. 

“You murderous, bitch!” The second man stepped forward, a hand still gripping the boy ‘round the neck. A flash of fear crawled down her spine. But, he stopped. Something stopped him.

“Let go of the boy, gentlemen.” Dutch turned the corner and walked out from the shadows, his pistol aimed for this man’s gullet. “Lest you want to die bleedin’.”

That gun. That damn gun. Yet even she couldn’t deny the effect it had as his faces fell, standing in contrast with the might of Dutch van der Linde. The man’s mouth dropped open. He stumbled a few steps backward. And, stunned, he ran.

A spray of water. The boy erupted from the water, sucking in air. One step and he fell to the ground, gripped his chest, and simply breathed.

A gurgle interrupted them. The man, who only moments ago had tried to kill them, laid there, wide-eyed and staring up into the sky. He fought for breath, but it was wet and sickening. Red spittle covered his lips. He was drowning, Bess realized, drowning in his own blood. And, it was her fault.

“Christ.” Dutch said, watching the man die. He shook his head, exasperated in ways only a parent could be, and glared at her. He stated only a single word, firm and final. “Mercy.”

He raised his pistol, proud. And, then it was over.

“What’s your name, son?” ,Dutch leant down and pulled the boy to his feet.

“John.” The boy croaked. His voice was hoarse and half strangled. He stood there, wide eyed as the water dripped from his black hair and soaked the ground. “John Marston.”

With ragged brown hair and harsh sneer, he was a feral thing, a wild thing bristlier than a porcupine. He hadn’t been fed in days, the muddy clothes he wore hung on him, serving little purpose. He was an orphan, one look and Bess knew, and he hated her. He looked at her, not as the woman who had saved him from the abyss, but as the one who’d abandoned him so long ago. 

From her, he expected nothing. He wanted nothing. His eyes held so much anger… Yet, as he rose, side by side with Dutch, he looked at the man as if he’d been sent from the heavens. And, in that moment, the image of her brother died. And, selfishly, Bess wanted nothing to do with him.

***

Goodnight. A good night. The moon hung, fat and comforting in the sky above them, in the heart of Jolliet’s slums. They could see it of course, even indoors, as they had taken refuge in an apartment only the desperate would seek out. The roof had collapsed long ago and holes were abundant, allowing moonlight to fall in and coat their world in sleep and shadow. The wooden walls were held together by little more than a few bent nails and the hard-earned hope of a widowed mother burdened by two kids, no older than five. The hospitality had been begrudgingly given. What little Bess had seen of their hostess, the woman had been gritty and direct about her terms. She would not tell a soul where they were and, after they had left, she would have enough to leave the place behind for good.

Goodnight. A good night. The moon hung, blue and radiant in the sky above them, quickly bringing the chill of night that would bring them all together in slumber. Bess stood in the doorway of the kitchen -if, indeed, a kitchen without food can be called that- and watched the boys sleep. Arthur was splayed out, mouth open and snoring, nearly twice John's size and taking the bulk of the cot the two boys shared. Even in his newly dried clothes, John had curled in on himself, cast himself away from Arthur’s shadow in the search for sleep. His back was turned away from them all. Whether it was to find warmth or safety, Bessie did not know. 

Goodnight. A good night. The moon hung, sharing the sky with twinkling stars and newfound dreams. Susan had long disappeared into the large bedroom, no doubt wrestling with the same questions Bessie too had found herself fighting underneath the moon so long and brief time ago. Dutch hadn’t said a word to her since the robbery, yet she waited nonetheless, sitting on the bed in silence.

Hosea and Dutch loitered in the living room, with Hosea fumbling with a bedroll & a moth-eaten couch and Dutch watching him do so. As she passed, Dutch stopped her, bowing his head to her. 

“I do believe I owe you my gratitude, Miss McElveen.” He whispered, casting an eye to the man they both adored. Yet, even as he prepared for bed, Bess could see the tension in Hosea’s shoulders. Dutch stood, uneasy, unsure what words would heal the wounds today had tore open.

“Always, Dutch.” She said and she left them together with their unspoken grievances.

“I bid you goodnight, Hosea,” He smiled, “And may success find us again in the morning.”

“You call today a success?” Hosea said, catching him before he could reach the doorway.

“This town is fed because of the work we did today, Hosea.”

“It didn’t have to go down the way it did, Dutch.” Hosea said, looking away. He folded and fiddled with the blanket -trying to ease the fear he now knew and, failing- eventually crumbled it all into a ball. He stilled.

Dutch said, softly, “You look pale, brother.” 

“I thought they had me,” He said and Dutch asked forgiveness, then, in the silence that surpassed between them.“But, it seems I’ll live a little while yet.”

“What are we, Hosea?”

“We’re partners.” 

“Always?” 

Hosea paused, silent. He stared at Bess’ door, wishing he was a better liar, before saying, “Go to sleep, brother.”

***

Bess sat up in bed, giving up on the promise of a full night’s rest. A thin straw mattress was all she had, all their hosts had to give. She had stripped down to her camisole, her skin bare to the night air that had drifted in from the outside. It wasn’t cold, not yet, and Bess tried not to think about children and the reality of winter snows.

A feeling -fleeting- called out to her and brought her to her feet. She walked to her door, leaning on her own door frame. She could see him there on the couch, with an arm tucked behind his head and the blanket long thrown away. He shut his eyes, pretending at sleep, but Bess saw the rise & fall of his chest and she knew that peace had escaped him too.

“Hosea?” Bess whispered. Her eyes traced his form, the curve of his neck, of his back, of his hips. He didn’t dare to look at her, not at this hour. But, she wanted him to look. Desire gripped her. Those eyes... She would die, happily, her own body rotting into the grass if she could look at those eyes. But, at last, he opened them. And, he looked back.

“No need to sleep outside.” Bess smiled, knowingly and disappeared back into the bedroom. 

At last, he appeared in the doorway. Bess sat on the bed, her breasts shaping the thin fabric of her nightgown. He could see them. She knew. She wanted him to look. Her breath was fast and shallow and, for once, she wanted him to stop being such a gentleman and do something. He walked over, every step hesitant and hopeful. She stared at him, upwards, as his lean frame towered over her and waited. He touched the side of her face, brushing away her hair. He ran his thumb over her lips and-

The kiss was sudden. Then, it was suddenly more. There lips collided and they kissed like stars crumbling into ash amongst the heavens. Hosea slipped his hands under her nightgown, grabbing her breasts and, as he lowered her back onto the bed, the truth came crashing down around them, as cold and clarifying as a moonlight stream. 

They had been an inevitability.

***

“Lyra.”

“Aquila.” 

“Sagitta.” 

One by one, Hosea took her hand and traced the stars with an outstretched finger. Bess could picture them all: the golden harp, the eagle, the arrow. They were just pinpricks of light, far away amongst the heavens, yet his voice blew life into them all. 

“And, together, they surround...” Bess could only look on in awe as the hero came alive before her, “The mighty Hercules.”

“How do you know all this Hosea?”

“You sleep rough long enough and sooner or later you pick up a few things. It’s nothing, really.” Hosea said. “You didn’t have stars in West Elizabeth?” 

Bess paused, mulling over her own memories. Then, she smiled. So, this is what happiness is? Her soul had been baptized, through water and stars, on that first night in the river so many moons ago. And, now she savored it, as they laid there together under the moonlit sky. She brought him closer, nestling herself in his arms, wishing the moment would never end.

“I never looked at them till now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you how much words from readers mean to me! So, Like and comment below!


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